Killing Christmas

I could hardly believe my ears when Steve Miller said he wanted to kill Christmas. Other than Ebenezer Scrooge, who would say such a thing? Most kids in Saint Francis Orphanage were fast asleep, and thank goodness for that because I don’t think Mother Kriss could handle a small-scale riot on her own. Collecting all those donations and hoping that there was enough to go around would drive anyone crazy.

There’s about three hundred children of varying ages here at Saint Francis, and out of all those lonely souls, I’m Steve’s only friend. What he had just proposed blew my mind. Kill Christmas…really?!

“Well, what do you think, Pete?”

Before I could answer, I took a deep breath to calm my anxiety. “Yeah…sure. Let’s kill Christmas.”

Wait a minute. What did I just say?!

Okay, don’t judge me. I don’t have many friends, so I need to stay in Steve’s good graces.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Steve said, brushing his fingers through his black oily hair. “Don’t be so self-conscious. I mean just look around you, Pete,” he paused and waved his hand around the room of sleeping kids. “Everyone here knows there is no happily ever after. If there were, we would all have good families to share our lives with.”

“I know,” I said like a bumbling idiot. Steve always had a way of making me see his logic like a great magician hiding a card up his sleeve. “But why do we have to do it?”

“You know why.”

“I do?”

“Yes, and don’t pretend you don’t.”

“Um…”

Steve glared at me and explained, “Last year, Santa let everyone down. Suzie over there, didn’t get her pony. Billy didn’t get his remote control monster truck. Sally missed out on that cool Barbie corvette and—”

“And,” I bit into his words like a hungry dog, “you didn’t get that dirt bike and I missed out on that Lego Star Wars set.”

“Exactly,” Steve said, stamping his word with authority. “We’re the kids that everybody forgets about. It’s to be expected I guess, but Santa…I mean…how could he forget about us too?”

“Well, he is very busy. Maybe he forgot,” I said, staring at the cold wooden floor. I felt ashamed for saying that. Santa did forget about us. The only thing we got last year were used toys from the Salvation Army.

“Busy my ass!” Steve yelled. His eyes roamed the room. Other than a few stirs, the children were still fast asleep. “Of all the people,” he continued in a soft whisper, “Santa should know better! We’re all good kids. It’s not our fault our parents abandoned us.”

“M-my parents didn’t abandon me. They died in a car crash and with no other family to claim me, I ended up in this hell hole.” Why do I always have to correct him?

“That’s besides the point. It doesn’t matter how we got here. Everyone has a sad story.” Steve rose from his white bed, which was next to mine, and tiptoed to the frosted windows at the front of the room. His eyes roamed the dark horizon and he crinkled his forehead. “That fat jolly man must pay. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve and Santa’s head is gonna roll!”

“What did you have in mind?” I asked. My heart was full of dread. Did I truly want to know his answer? Yes…yes I did.

“It’s like I said before,” Steve said with a creepy smile. “Tomorrow night… We kill Christmas. Are you with me?”

I squeezed my legs together to hold my urine in. I knew killing Christmas was wrong, but even I couldn’t believe the words that soon followed. “Of course, I’m with you.”

Later that night, I laid in bed and stared at the arched ceiling plastered with cobwebs. It was a horrific treat for the eyes thinking about all the spiders who made them. Or perhaps it was one gigantic spider who was biding its time to eat us all. I can see it now. A black shadow descending from the rafters until it grips one of the children in its nasty grasp. In one swift motion, the monster returns from whence it came and a waterfall of blood rains down on the empty white sheets.

Funny how the mind plays tricks on us. My imagination can be a bit much. I closed my eyes and thought about the true meaning of Christmas. It’s not about the gifts, food, or cool television specials. It’s about love, peace, Christ, and the sacrifice of giving. It’s the one day where even the Devil can cast a weary smile.

Santa is the personification of the holiday season. Everybody knows who he is and the story behind him. Every year he brings gifts for all the good boys and girls. So, why did he forget about us? Were we bad kids last year? I don’t know. It’s too much for my eight year old brain to comprehend.

Morning came as fast as I closed my eyes. I woke up from Steve’s nasty routine of blowing his nose into the bedsheets. Why can’t he use toilet paper like the rest of us? Anyway, after we got dressed in the finest hand-me-downs the world had ever seen, we went downstairs and ate our breakfast—cold porridge mixed with brown sugar. Nothing gets you going like that stuff!

Steve had me keep a look out while he snuck into the kitchen to steal a knife. He stuffed it down his brown trousers and looked like he was packing heat. I grabbed our half-eaten bowls and placed them in the sink for the dishwasher to clean. He was a big burly man with a robust belly. I was surprised he could see me, but he did. After a stern scolding about how I should dump the leftovers in the trash, I gave Steve a nod, and we ran back upstairs.

“Great job, Pete!” Steve praised. “I was worried about that fat-tub-of-laard, but you gave me the distraction I needed to get this…”

He reached into his pants and pulled out a long kitchen knife that glimmered in the light. “This baby will be the instrument of our destruction. Santa won’t know what hit him!”

“That’s great,” I said, almost choking on my words. “But how do we know if he’ll even come here this year?”

“Oh…he’ll show up this year.” Steve placed the knife under his snot-filled mattress and sat down with a devilish grin. “I know for a fact, every kid in this building wrote that fat monster a letter telling him how disappointed they were with him. So, I have no doubt he’ll come this year to make up for his mistake.”

I flashed a half smile and nodded. “That’s a good point. There’s no way he forgets us two times in a row.”

“Damn right!” Steve cooed. “Now listen carefully. When everyone goes to sleep tonight, we will sneak up to the roof and hide behind the heating exhaust pipes. When Santa touches down in his sleigh, we will surprise him and lop his head off!”

“Great plan,” I said, praising Steve’s twisted idea. But was it foolproof? I suppose we would soon find out.

The rest of the day, things went on like usual. There were a lot of Christmas shows and movies on tv, and most of us sat around the flashing tube. Except for Steve. He sat on his bed, eyes fixed on the darkening sky. I’ve never seen him that determined before.

Is Santa Claus real? I suppose we all believe to some extent…but I hope he wasn’t because I’m not sure I could live with what we were about to do.

The time was upon us. It was eleven-thirty and everyone was fast asleep. Steve and I snuck out of our beds and crept to the bedroom door. The kitchen knife was tucked firmly in Steve’s striped pajamas. After a quick peek down the hallway, there was no sign of any custodians prowling around.

With the coast clear, we made our way to the upper staircase that led to the roof. Our heavy footsteps made the wooden boards squeal like stuck pigs. Steve gave me a reassuring look and continued to lead the way. I held the rear with a watchful eye. We didn’t want anyone to catch us. It was Christmas Eve, so most of the guardians were downstairs drinking eggnog and eating Christmas cookies—tax payer dollars hard at work. That was fine with us because we had a mission to accomplish and everything was going according to plan.

The steel door leading to the roof looked like a dark demon trying to scare us away. Steve defied its intimidation and unlocked it. The cool night air bit our bones like a hungry wolf and as we took our first steps onto the roof a sense of fear tied my stomach into knots. The goosebumps on my neck told the story well.

Steve was steadfast in his focus. He grabbed my arm and led me behind the exhaust vents. “This is it,” he said. “The fat man should be here any moment.”

“H-how can you be so sure?” I asked with chattering teeth.

Steve slapped the back of my head. “Because doofus, everybody knows Santa’s journey starts at midnight. I’m telling ya…he’ll be here any second.”

Sure enough, Steve was right again. I should have known better than to doubt him. The sound of jingling bells and snorting reindeer emerged from the fluffy dark clouds above us. Santa Claus was real!

We watched with careful eyes as the sleigh bounced from rooftop to rooftop. It was a magical thing to witness. Steve grabbed the back of my neck and said, “This is it. He’s coming here next. Get ready!”

I steadied myself as Santa steered his reindeer to our roof. We ducked so he couldn’t see us. I thought for sure that we were cooked, but Steve’s plan was smooth as melted butter sprinkled with Christmas sugar.

We stood ready for action. Steve removed the kitchen knife and held it firmly, but what we saw next scared the Dickens out of us. As Santa stepped out of the red sleigh he looked nothing like the stories had told us. There were no rosy cheeks or a belly shaking like jello. No bushy white beard or a red suit with black boots. Was this some kind of cruel joke?

A Christmas fairytale proven to be a myth was the least of our worries. Standing before us was a man with burnt skin, red eyes, and a black beard with red glowing embers that dangled on the ends of his matted hair. Resting on top of his charcoaled skull, was a broken crown of colorless jewels that gave his broad face a menacing look.

The evil Santa wore a dark green suit with matching pants and brown boots that were heavily worn. He had an oversized belly where imprints of tiny hands and feet could be seen trying to get out. His eight fearsome reindeer had bits of flesh missing from their hides and maggots oozed out from their hollow eyesockets. They looked like they were hit by a thousand vehicles.

Steve quickly turned to me with wide eyes and blurted, “This changes nothing. We have to attack now and kill Christmas forever!”

Before I could protest the notion, Steve ran out from our hiding spot. He howled a fearsome roar with the kitchen knife held high above his head. The evil Santa saw him coming from a mile away. He grabbed Steve’s throat, hoisted him into the air, and smacked the knife away like a pesky fly.

“Trying to kill me, little pip-squeak?!” Santa growled. His voice sounded like he gargled with broken glass on a daily basis.

“What’s it to you,” Steve said, choking on his words. “You must die for forgetting us last year!”

Santa belched a mighty belly laugh. “I didn’t forget you last year! I passed this orphanage on purpose because I was running late! But don’t worry, I plan to make it up to you all this year. I’m very hungry…ho, ho, hoooo!”

“You’re not what we thought,” Steve said, voice fading.

“Oh, you thought I was a fat jolly man who delivered presents to all the good boys and girls of the world, huh? Well, that may have been the story once upon a time, but in case you hadn’t noticed, there are NO good children in the world anymore! After a while, I grew tired of being the joke. So, I gave into the dark side of life and decided that all children must pay for their insolence. Now, instead of eating cookies, I eat fingers and toes…ho, ho hooo!!”

I clenched my eyes shut as Santa ripped Steve’s head off, spinal cord and all. He opened his mouth wide and swallowed his skull like a limp spaghetti noodle. He then tossed Steve’s squirting body to his reindeer and sang, “There you go boys, a little treat just for you!”

The reindeer tore into Steve’s body like it was an all you can eat buffet. Thick blood turned the snow covered rooftop red, and I must admit—a little pee stained my pajamas. But somewhere I found the courage to stand tall. The kitchen knife was calling my name and luckily it was only a few feet from my grasp. I grabbed it and silently ran toward Santa.

Before Father Christmas could turn to face me, I jumped into the air and plunged the knife deep into the back of his neck. With a little twist and a lot of screaming, I managed to cut Santa’s head clean off.

I fell to the ground and watched his skull roll across the red snow. “That was for Steve you piece of shit!”

The reindeer turned their attention to me and I feared the end was near. To my surprise, as they charged at me, they all turned to black dust and vanished before my flinching eyes. I suppose since I killed Santa, the magic of the season had died with him.

Thank goodness for that, I say. It’s hard to imagine all the lives I saved that night. Killing Christmas was the best thing I could have ever done in my life. The world is a better, safer place now that the magic is dead and gone.